


216 Hours

by MajesticalJeff



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Assassination Attempt(s), Assault, Blood, Blood and Injury, Corruption, Descriptions of gore, Drug Use, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Ex convict Kylo, Existentialism, Extreme Bodily Damage, FuckHuxUp2k16, Graphic Description of Corpses, Grapic Violence, Guns and other weapons, Hitmen, Homeless system, Hux is Irish and mean, Kylo is of Polish Decent, Law, Love/Hate, M/M, Mental Instability, Mentions of Sex, Military, Modern AU, New York, Organ Damage, POV Alternating, Past Child Abuse, Past Suicide Attempt, Poetic Deconstructions, Polar Opposites, Political Chain, Political Scandal, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Repression, Self Defence, Self Defense, Senator Hux, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Room, Slang, Slow Burn, Smoking, Swearing, This is just aggressive team building, Troubled Past, Violence, and Hux is basically dying, and they just happen to hate each other, deep conversation, internal bleeding, light homophobia, lots of triggers, time pressure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-14 13:53:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8016577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajesticalJeff/pseuds/MajesticalJeff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Senator Armitage Hux is involved within a sex scandal that suggests he is climbing political ranks through unsavory ways, a hit on him is placed from higher forces, throwing Hux into a battle for his life. Unmatched and outnumbered, he is only saved when ex-convict and currently homeless Kylo Ren intervenes against his better interest. But when things go sideways, the pair become cornered in a condemned, unstable building. With Hux fatally injured and no way out, they must work together in order to survive against the clock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginning (Part One)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work in the kylux fandom so i have high hopes that you will all enjoy it. Of course, a huge thank you to my editor, Pangea, who put up with my long sentences and descriptions. 
> 
> Triggers WILL be posted at the beginning of every chapter. Enjoy.
> 
> Trigger: Violence, Death, Gore.

_“And don’t come back!”_

Punctuated by the thud of the old iron door, the words seemed to cut the air, much like how the impact of the old canvas bag hitting cement sent up a ruffle of flurries a few feet away. The cold is chaffing, thick and heavy, laced with static electricity; exposed skin quickly consumed by its merciless bite and raw knuckled hands are hidden in pockets. A deep exhale sends out a gust of white mist into the air, visible under the humming yellow streetlight which caressed the shadowed silhouette like a brush of fingers.  

The first time this’d happened had felt like a swift punch to the gut, wrought with despair and hopelessness. But this wasn’t the first time anymore, and it wasn’t going to be the last.

As Kylo Ren stood, hidden in the shadow of the old church, he snorted aloud at the thought. He was banned from more than half the shelters in the fucking city by now, and adding another measly dump with shit heating to the list wasn’t much of a blow on his dignity.

The woman a few paces over seemed to think differently though. Built like a brick shithouse, her hair was a silver under the moonlight, the ethereal light draping across her like a gentle touch. Her head was ducked, sleeves pressed to a clearly broken nose in attempt to staunch the flow of blood that now splattered the pavement, oblivious to the fact she was the very reason Kylo was booted out into the minus forty temperatures.

 “What’s so fuckin’ funny, eh?” She growls, voice muffled and eyes narrowed. Much like Kylo, she had uncut hair and layers upon layers of old, ragged clothes, blatantly showing her stance in society. Admittedly, he’d seen her around before, rather hard to miss if he must be honest. Not many people were taller than Kylo, but a woman who was, was an unexpected surprise. Still, he’d never clashed with her before now, and the consequences were rather irritable if he must be honest.

“Nothin’.” Kylo grumbles, channeling his irritation into his blunt words, digging the tip of his steel toed boot into a crack in the pavement, rummaging his pockets for a cigarette. He growls in agitation when he comes up empty. _Figures_. Probably fell from his pocket during the squabble.

“I’d like to think so. This was the last place,” she snarled, pointing to the back of the aged ornate building they’d just been _chauffeured_ from. “That I could go, and now I can’t come _back_.”

“If it makes you feel better, neither can _I_.” Kylo said dryly, rolling his eyes.

A quick rule to learn when it came to staying in shelters was to shut up, follow the rules, and don’t fuck around with another person’s space. Kylo had managed, of course, to simultaneously break all three within seconds of walking in; having tossing his shit down in what appeared to be an unoccupied spot and collapsing almost immediately off aching feet. It hadn’t been long before the rough hand of the woman who glared daggers at him now shook his shoulder, saying something about that area being occupied already, and that’d he would have to move it.

All he would’ve have to do was move, maybe even apologize for fucking once, but instead, he’d been a shithead, adamantly refusing to move, and quickly what’d been some grumbling had become shouting, shoving, and then a full scale fight. It seemed that was the typical process that tended to happen when Kylo Ren and his temper was involved.

What would’ve _been_ a simple brawl was thrown off by security, wrangling the two apart haphazardly and without care, complete catalysts to making this night worse, as a second later all it took was one awkward flail for Kylo’s elbow to happily make contact with the woman’s nose, cracking it with a wet splatter of blood. They were given barely enough time to gather their shit before being kicked out.

And now Kylo was in this little predicament. He was quite sure that the situation would’ve sorted itself out as they usual do, but now he was facing squatting – again – in some dilapidated old factory with the warmth of the arctic ocean.

It’s with a sigh that he grabs his bag, hoisting it up on his shoulder and makes to leave the back alley, limping lightly as he shuffled along. Kylo’s not surprised or excited when footsteps quickly catch up, and his body is lurched to a stop by a rather bloody, large hand landing on his shoulder. “Where d’you think you’re going.”

Kylo turns before he answers. If he’s about to be stabbed or punched in the fucking head, he’d rather it wasn’t from behind, and looking this woman in her handsome, rugged face, he couldn’t be quite sure which would happen first.

Her nose is swollen, blood still pouring down her front as dark rings already begin to form under narrowed eyes. It’s a bad break, even vision impairing at this point, and Kylo sags his shoulders. Fighting would be unnecessary, both of them feeling like shit and without anywhere to go. With a huff, Kylo rubs his eyes with his free hand before looking back up at her.

                “Listen,” he sighs, looking her dead in her cold eyes. “I’m sorry, alright? The closest hospital with an ER is six blocks over.” He says jabbing his thumb out of the alleys and towards the left. Her brows rose a fraction, but her gaze didn’t waver, steady on Kylo’s, grey into black. After a second, she seemed to determine this was neither a trick or trap, and hums aloud.

And it’s the moment Kylo thinks he’s off the hook that her bloody hand moved from his shoulder to pat him almost aggressively on his stubbled cheek, a sticky red smear left in its wake, contrasted sharply against the gaunt pallor of his skin. Unaffected by his surprise, she gives him a smile that is more a baring of teeth. “Wonderful. You’ll keep m’ company.”

Kylo doesn’t even get a chance to respond before he’s being dragged along by the front of his hoodie, the shadows of the pair stretch down the alleyway, and sirens wail in the distance.

 

* * *

 

 

The hospitals fourth floor waiting room is a solemn place. Florescent lights reflecting off of bleached tile make eyes unfocused and watery as lungs seem strain under the weighted air, thick with something akin to misery. Unnamed echoes bounce the halls, faint and disclosed as they reverberate, balanced out by the squeaking soles of nurse’s shoes or the shift of material in the closed room. The grey mauve of the walls is numbing inside the small, square room where Kylo Ren sits, half asleep in an uncomfortable chair. An occasional bubble would rise in the water machine by the door, blubbing almost morosely, and a TV just above his head hums with energy and volume too low to hear.

A large, square window with a slight ledge is vertical to him, showing the lights and streets of the surrounding neighborhood as the clock just above it ticked aimlessly.

After making several poor attempts on remembing how exactly to read a non-digital clock – which was embarrassingly harder than he expected it to be –  Kylo managed to approximate it was about three fifty in the morning, which explained the stuffy emptiness of the room around him compared to the havoc of the one downstairs.

After being attended to by a doctor who determined her nose was, in fact, broken – something which Kylo and woman shared an exasperated expression over – they’d been sent upstairs for x-ray and setting, the woman being handed a temporary sanitary mask for her way up.

“So, Phasma, right?” Kylo had muttered awkwardly in the quiet elevator. He didn’t really need to question as he had been the one to fill in the admittance papers and had seen her signature after she wrote it.

“Yes.” She replied, voice muffled under the mask and lacking in emotion. The silence had returned and was left undisturbed as she’d talked to a nurse at a counter, and when they’d sat in the waiting room for her to be summoned.

“I’m, uh, Kylo.” He’d responded, waving a hand uselessly in front of himself. She hadn’t replied.

If Kylo had to guess, he’d say _Phasma_ had been gone about a half hour, and his boredom was increasing like an itch, mind unfocused and darting back and forth through random, unamusing thoughts. One hand awkwardly floats up to stroke across his fuller bottom lip, thumb running over the ridged scar in the center.

He doesn’t have to pretend that this, although uncomfortable and significantly boring, was much better than any dusty, rotting floor covered in glass, surrounded by the settling of the foundation and vibrating walls that almost seemed to be breathing. He wasn’t afraid that if he fell asleep, he wouldn’t wake up or be stolen blind, that he’d get some horrible disease like he’d seen so many others succumb to.

The water jug bubbles again, and Kylo is motivated enough to push himself up and get himself a paper cup full, downing it in one mouthful only to refill it again, taking advantage of the free resource. It’s not like it was particularly hard to get clean water, the taps in café’s bathrooms or even stealing a plastic bottle is effective enough, but he wasn’t about to waste an opportunity like this.

Enjoying the stretch on his legs, Kylo places his arm over the top of the water jug, looking over at the News channel displayed on the reasonably sized flat screen. He, naturally, wasn’t super caught up in the comings and goings of the world at the moment, the most access he gets to news is the occasional paper or word of mouth.

What seems to be the latest, judging by the obnoxious headline, was about a supposed ‘gay affair’ that a current senator had been caught in. Kylo sips his water, eyes narrowed as he watched the screen leave the blonde woman reporting to show a clip of the supposed senator, fighting his way through a flock of paparazzi, and although the volume was low, Kylo could see his lips forming the regular quote of “ _no comment_ ” in between snarls.

The blond returns on screen, alongside a proper picture of the man, which admittedly makes Kylo hum in appreciation as he once again refills his cup. Not so bad looking after all, with high cheekbones and cold eyes, his hair a fiery copper and combed impeccably. He could almost say that in another lifetime, the man would’ve made a good model. Or at the very least someone who didn’t look like they sucked on lemons before a picture.

The remote is on the coffee table alongside some outdated magazines, and now interested in the _gotcha journalism_ of the attractive senator, Kylo wastes no time turning up the volume.

“ _… Son of Brendol Hux II, Armitage Hux is the youngest senator seated in 2016, and it appears that he finally slipped up in a way that_ truly _shows his age…”_

Kylo snorts aloud as she continues almost dramatically. “ _In a country where LGBTA+ rights are an off-on topic in government, it’s no surprise of young Armitage’s desire to keep his secret, but it’s only when an anonymous source spills photos of the torrid affair, does it become a real threat to his political career. Although our sources will not confirm who, it is believe the ‘lover’ in said images to be of an_ Associate Justice _of the Supreme Court. Which brings to question, is there an ulterior motive on Senator Hux’s side?”_

The camera angle changes to show that the blond is no longer alone, a greying man with a lined face and bleached teeth sits next to her at the table in a bleak suit, staring at the camera smugly and clearly ready to lay his steaming pile to the world. Kylo isn’t sure when he took a seat, but sets that thought aside as the man begins his speech.

“ _As we all know, the political climb of Armitage Hux has been a progressive, and unsurprising one. Graduating Harvard University with two degrees in federal law and business, as well as MD-Phd at the tender age of twenty, it is no surprise when the junior Hux follows in the footsteps of his father, spending six years serving in the US military before discharge for supposed PTSD_

_“But It’s after two years MIA, when Armitage Hux returns to the light in 2014 to declare his intentions of running for senate, that his political career truly begins. What starts as public disbelief at the man’s late start in the run, turns to outright shock, when within only weeks the young contester is at the top of the poles, and remains so for the length of his campaign and then election. Soon enough the junior Hux is seated in senate, and receiving more attention from influential political figures than ever.”_

The channel uses now to show a series of pictures, all including Hux and several “important political figures”. Nondescript people laughing as he smiles slightly, hands being shaken, whiskey glasses shared at a gala. There are only two faces Kylo recognizes, one of the American president, and the second of an older woman with greying brown hair and sharp brown eyes all too familiar, a face he hadn’t seen in decades.

He feels his lip twinge, and almost misses when the new anchors continue their unflattering rampage. “ _This truly does bring up the question, Debbie, if that this newest scandal is anything but political. Could it be possible that this, and maybe even long before now, during the Hux campaign, that Armitage Hux was, daresay, sleeping his way through the ranks? While we at channel six news can’t be sure, you can. What do you believe?”_

The channel plays the clip of Hux once more, curled lips and forcing his way through a crowd with the assistance of what must be security of some kind. Doing a shit job, in Kylo’s opinion, but it didn’t matter. Politics was politics, and Kylo had never been too good at that.

Either way, the case of ‘Armitage Hux’ was an interesting one, and it had Kylo leaning back in his seat, eyebrows furrowed and thoughts racing as a commercial for Tropicana blared violently in the background, casting an obnoxious light over the room.

It wasn’t every day you heard about a gay senator, especially one that seemed to be a young genius and using sex to climb the ranks. It wasn’t a stupid idea admittedly, and Kylo could say he almost respected the man for using whatever he could to get what he wanted. Kylo could imagine a time where he once did that too.

Then again, unlike him, he doubted it’d lead to Hux sleeping on cardboard.

After pushing himself back to his feet, Kylo turned the volume back down to the comfortable hum, returning to his seat beneath the TV beside his bag, huddling tightly into his jackets and focused adamantly on nothing, trying to clear his mind.

When he was little, Kylo’s uncle had taught him to meditate, said it controlled anger. Kylo, in response, had told him it was a ‘load of shit’ and proceeded to get grounded for five weeks. Something he’d ironically used to learn how to meditate anyway. Now, though, it wasn’t used to control his emotions as much as it was to disassociate himself from his body and mind, to be away from his world and the reality of it.

Kylo couldn’t help but wonder if Senator Hux wished he could be doing the very same thing right now.

 

* * *

 

 

“Wake up.”

“ _I wasn’t sleepin’_.”

“Bullshit. You just yawned.”

“Okay fine,” Kylo grumbled, glaring blearily up the giant of a woman standing next to his current resting place, her shadow cast over him like a blanket. He could already feel the cramp in his neck and the soreness of his back before he bothered to stand.

Phasma, now with a layer of taping over her nose and a prescription for what must be painkillers in hand, is glaring nonetheless. Kylo is struck adamantly with the thought of dead fish, staring at him from behind the glass of a case of a market street, emotionless and soulless, the type of thing that sent a shiver down your spine and an unconscious swallow.

These eyes watch him as he stretches, spine and knees popping, the music of sore joints filling the ugly silence of the room. “Someone could’ve stolen my bag.”

It’s taken enough convincing for her to leave it with him, the mistrust she held was passionate, as it is with most living their lives on the street, all terribly paranoid of what menial things they’d collected over time to be taken away.

Kylo found those who didn’t, never really had anything they cared to lose in the first place. He was one of those people before, but he’d found the error of his ways. No matter, it’d been a big enough feat that Phasma had left her bag with him, but it wasn’t for lack of choice. There wasn’t a chance she’d been allowed to bring it into medical with her.

 “Have fun?” She questions dryly as Kylo handed her the bag in question, gladly leaving her previous comment to air. The bag is heavier than his, but mostly due to the weighed, canvas material. He’d recognized it as military, but had yet to comment on it. If there was one thing Kylo knew from personal experience, soldiers who ended up on the streets didn’t want to remember they were soldiers at all. He had no doubt she’d feel the same.

“Read a pamphlet ‘bout internal bleeding.” Kylo commented without any real emotion as he hefted his own bag onto his shoulder. “Also some senator got caught fuckin’ his superior.”

“Fun.” She replies, and doesn’t wait as she exits the room, letting Kylo trail behind her, the echo of their heavy boots bouncing softly as they go. The elevator almost feels too small for the hulking figures and their bags, bouncing slightly as they entered to make up for their weight.

“I thought so.”

Silence follows, comfortable and settled as the elevator jolted before beginning its smooth pursuit downwards. Neither of them wanted to acknowledge the cold they would soon be forced to step into, that they would have to continue scrounging through the muck and puke of the cities darkest corners once this was all over.

Elevator door dinged open.

The first floor was quiet, and while that was no different from the rest of the building, it still felt new, like Kylo had just stepped out of a room full of voices. He’d always hated hospitals for this reason. The lights reflecting off the floor in sharp cornered shapes, leaving the spaces in between soft with a faint darkness. Empty seats and frozen plants are pressed to walls, almost as if there was a need for more space. More emptiness for Kylo and Phasma to walk down the expanse of.

 “Would you like a coffee?” He asks on a whim as they near a small, in-building café. It was the first place he’d seen people; a pair of nurses, and a few tired patron lingering at tables on devices or talking silently. It feels like a blur, like he wasn’t really there.

When Kylo looks back at Phasma, she is staring down at him, striking him once again with the thought of dead fish and their near demonic eyes. She only seems prompted to respond when Kylo arches his brows ever so slightly in an imploring fashion, even then, he receives nothing but a huff.

“Fine.” He mumbles, walking towards the café anyway, content with how he didn’t feel the need to check if she would follow. It was coffee, and he was buying, it wasn’t even a question.

The woman behind the linoleum counter could’ve been a corpse from the hospital’s own morgue and Kylo wouldn’t know the difference. Shuffling around, fetching the bland cups and lids with the efficiently of the recently reanimated. She even almost missed the first cup when she began to pour the staunch, steaming liquid. It came black and gritty, burning his fingers through the paper cups, just how he expected and preferred.

Phasma excepts hers without question, leading him away from the tables to two armchairs pressed to a wall, facing forward while still side by side. Their material was an odd, almost plastic feel, dank and a shade of beige that felt almost as exhausted as the atmosphere. Behind them on the wall, a print of watercolor birds hangs.

“So, –” Kylo begins, but is silenced by humming growl from the woman beside him as she sips from her drink, and settles deeper in his chair, taking it as a sign to shut up and instead studies the faded pastel triangle pattern on the cup in his hands.

“Where did you serve?” She asks suddenly, taking Kylo by surprise. Had he been so apparent?

Instead of reacting visually, Kylo mimics the woman’s cool indifference by blowing steam from the top of his coffee, deliberately waiting a minute as he sips, accepting the sear over his tongue. “Prison.”

“Before that.” Phasma replies immediately, and Kylo can’t help but fidget in his seat. He’d figured that’d been enough to ward her off, as it usual does. He was wrong.

“Navy.” Kylo replied gruffly instead, rather then hide the truth. What was the point if she already knew? As predicted, her only response is a hum that has no apparent interest behind it. Kylo regrets telling her, an odd squeeze in behind his ribcage. Another minute ticks by. The nurses from the café walk past them without a glance.

“How long?”

“Navy or prison?” he responds cheekily after another second, and can see her slowly turn her head to look at him, her sharp profile grey and near sickly under the white lights, dead eyes staring. He wonders if he looks the same.

Kylo’s hand runs roughly over his stubbled mouth.

“Both.”

Kylo sighs, sliding a little lower in his seat and tucking his chin to his chest. He was tired, and suddenly he wished he never spoke. Phasma struck him as.  The type that only spoke with purpose, no need for menial conversation. He should’ve expected this. “Three years in the Navy, ten in prison. One year in between.”

“Two years in prison, eleven in the military.”

This time it’s Kylo’s turn to look at her, up from his little crevice he’d nudged himself into. She meets his eyes, and the for the briefest second the corner of her mouth twitches in a mistakable glimpse of a smile.

Kylo snorts aloud, shaking his head. “What came first? Chicken or the egg.”

Phasma scoffs, a resounding sound that seemed to echo the cavern of a room, and Kylo thinks for a second she might just leave in the face of his nonsense. Instead she takes a mouthful of coffee, either unbothered or uncaring of its heat.

“Still have your tags?” Kylo asks instead, and when she looks over at him this time, it’s almost with sadness in those bleak grey eyes.  “Always.” She replies on a swallowed sigh.

Kylo hums in agreement. “Why’d you leave?”

“You talk too much.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Silence. The picture they make must be interesting, the woman is so… _still_. It is as if the quiet resounds from her personally, that if she was to get up and leave, a static would fill the air, that pressing sound and noise would be deafening. Back straight and shoulders back, you can truly see the discipline in her posturing, beaten into the meat of her skin, the strength in her jaw. Beside her, Kylo is anything but, slumped low and long, the middle of his back practically on the bottom cushion of his seat, his legs spread out far in front of him, his person taking up as much space as possible.

Two people with life experiences so similar, yet are so different. Kylo wonders aimlessly if there are always two sides like this, if he will meet more like Phasma as he had like himself.

“Dishonorable discharge.” Kylo says aloud, eyeing the woman from the side as he took another drink of the stale coffee. It tasted more burnt the more he drank.

“Lost a leg.” Phasma replied just as blandly, and it sounds muffled, as if through her teeth despite her tone implying it was nothing at all. Kylo shifted himself upwards, eyebrows raised as he stared at her head on, “Really?”

“Yes.” Phasma murmurs, and Kylo sees the woman in a new light. He could imagine injury, sure, but losing a damn limb – how did she even function out here? And who would be so cold hearted to deny her treatment if she hadn’t received it?

“You have a story?” Kylo asks now, a light frown pressing his lips as his mind alights with a buzz of curiosity. Phasma almost immediately throws a water on this fire, staring straight ahead as she replies casually;

“Do _you_?”

The challenging question shuts him down immediately. Dishonorable discharge was not pretty, and Kylo new well he deserved the snipe for his own pushing. Instead he sits back, dry lips pressed tight.

“Drink your coffee Kylo.” Says Phasma beside him as he zones out grumpily.

“It tastes like shit.” Is his only grumbled reply.

“I know.”

They drink their coffee in silence.

 

* * *

 

 

When Phasma hands Kylo the number to her burner as a ‘just in case’ motive, it’s with the warning that it may not exist any longer in a few months and a look that could freeze hell itself.

Kylo decides then he wouldn’t use the number even as he pockets it.

It’s snowing outside again when they part ways, Kylo watching as she goes, passing under yellow streetlights, bag swinging off one broad shoulder, melting into the shadows as if she is made of it, ghostly and forgotten in the cast of the tall buildings on either side of her path.

And then Phasma is gone, and Kylo is alone again. When he sighs, a cloud passes his lips, the tinted air kissing the falling flurries tenderly, sending them spiraling away in gentle patterns, catching on Kylo’s clothes and already melting on his warm cheeks.

When he begins walking it is directionless, as he usually does, surging forth into the crumbling empire that was once a full functioning area of the city.

If New York was laid like the anatomy of a human, the old factory district would be the genitalia, a gnarled, generally undiscussed area that thrived with the diseases of man; from prostitution to organized crime, it breathed misery like the stale smoke of tobacco, clogging one’s senses until numb to the sensation entirely.

Kylo was far used to these festering bowels by now, where he’d once been jumpy, he now palmed the switchblade in his pocket like a prized possession. He didn’t expect trouble, not now at least, seeing as even criminals need sleep, but he wouldn’t be shocked to find some drunk fuck looking to find a quick end or some girl being unfortunately mauled by some inconsiderate dickhead.

Either way, Kylo was prepared, even if his main focus was finding a somewhat adequate sleeping spot. He’d become quite good at spotting the more unstable structures, the ones were foundation and floors were so loose that one wrong step could send you to the afterlife on a wing and a prayer. Those were the ones to avoid.

With chapped lips pressed in annoyance, Kylo took in his surroundings, stopping to appraise a large grey cement building a way up the opposite side of the street. It seemed like an adequ –

There’s a flash, the popping of stones under tires, and Kylo’s body reacts before his mind, throwing himself out of the line of sight or harm before he could even register what’d happened. It takes a solid minute for the world to come back into focus, an odd sot of buzz in his system as he noted the sharp edge of crumbling bricks against his spine from where he was pressed against. Headlights. They bloomed from the opposite end of the alley he’d happened to pause in front of while taking in his surroundings.

Kylo takes a second to exhale a breath he didn’t even realize he held, head tilting back against and silently thanking his old ‘action before thoughts’ reflex despite the amount of shit it’d gotten him in before. He’d registered and responded to a threat before his conscious had even caught up. Admittedly it was a nauseating felling, and his stomach felt like it was flipping.

Down the alley the headlights flicker but do not die, as if there was something blocking only parts of the glare, and Kylo can’t help but burn with a curiosity at who exactly was driving around the run down district at such an early time. He knew he shouldn’t, that curiosity is what gets you killed more times then none, but temptation became too much when the muted sound of multiple car doors opened, followed by a scuffling sound.

Kylo frowns as voices are added to the mix, shuffling closer to the mouth of the alley as he attempts to listen in, a voice in the back of his head nagged at what a bad idea this was all the way.

There’s a muffled male voice, something about _where the hell they were_ , perhaps about the mid alley. The voice is angry for sure, laden with an accent Kylo couldn’t identify, and almost confused. Kylo frowned, brows knit with worry. _This could be anything from a drug deal gone wrong to an actual hit_.

 _No, absolutely not._ Kylo did not want to be around any kind of death or desolation lest the police show up and he is forced to give a statement. The last thing he needed were officers snooping into his personal file and finding things they shouldn’t – or even worse, nothing at all.

He hoists his bag, intending to head back the way he came and go far, far away from this possible mayhem when he heads the unmistakable cocking of a gun, joined with the grind of dragging metal pipes over cement, they ring down to the open mouth of the alley like a beckoning of fingers, tempting him inwards. _Not. Happening._

There are voices. Then gunfire.

Then all hell breaks loose.

Kylo freezes at the sounds of yelling, the sounds of pipes cracking, the muffled blows of fists. Exhaling deeply and shutting his eyes softly, there is an odd settlement of calm over his large form, from the buzzing nerve endings numbing in the meat of his flesh, to the slow pound of his heart. It’s a total awareness, the calm before the storm.

It’s an awareness for the fact that what Kylo might be about – nay, is _about_ – to do is by far the stupidest thing he’s done in the last three years. His pulse is calm, slow. Ready. _Fuck_.

It takes nothing but an empty mind to do what he does, although he is sure recklessness is a good portion of it too, stopping in the mouth of the alley to strip off his heaviest jacket and bag and toss them aside, to stalk into the crevice without an appraisal of the scene, but fuck, it was his specialty.

 Seven guys in total, one on the ground and motionless, from what Kylo could see; some monstrosity of a mask on his face, meant to be a perverse version of a chubby cheeked toddler with a wide grin and closed eyes, a clean bullet wound through the forehead.

The lighting is poor, the wind is howling, the headlights are blinding, making the figures fighting in front of him almost impossible to see. There are five diverging on one, pipes and bats swinging, fists flying. This is not a talented attack as much as it is a fucking mess.

Kylo doesn’t waste time, using poor lighting and experience to his adventage, nobody sees or notices him, switchblade from his pocket in hand, until he grabs one of these attackers from behind, hand planted firmly over the foam mask and pulling back his head, exposing the column of his throat to open air and then the butter smooth slice of Kylo’s knife. There is a muffled scream, a gurgle, and an arc of blood that splatters over the lot of them.

The others react with shock unsparingly, as the attackers now splattered with arterial spray watch one of their own men hit the ground with a crunching thud. Eyes divert back to the stranger now, flickering with fear and surprise, one attacker has the audacity to shout ‘ _Who the fuck are you’_ through the muffle of his baby mask.

One man, Kylo recognizes as the one being attacked, takes open season on distraction, neatly smashing one of the guys in the ribs with a clearly won baseball bat, a crunch and shriek filling the air. The fray recommences, and Kylo cares not who he is attacking as much as he doesn’t care for their lives. He stabs, slashed and spins, old gears seemed to grind back into action as he roughly grapples his opponent, his previous shouting heckler, and managed to get the upper hand with a swift kick to the man’s gut, sending him back into the opposite wall, head making contact with an ugly crack.

Kylo’s about to go in for the kill, growling with satisfaction and teeth bared, when sudden weight is thrown on his back with such veracity he is sent stumbling, two arms wrapped tight around his neck in a sleeper hold.

Spots bloom before his eyes as his oxygen is cut off, and he tries to shake the person off, but the fucker clings like a monkey, hot breath escaping the breathing holes of his mask and onto Kylo’s throat, sticky and skin crawling. He has never felt such uncomfort in his life as he gives a strangled yell, reaching behind him to try and claw the man off to no avail. Hopeless.

The weight is gone as soon as it appeared, and Kylo also falls to his hands and knees as he chokes in air, eyes watering as he stumbles back onto his feet, turning defend himself from another attack.

Instead of a baby faced mask he finds the odd shadows of an almost recognizable face, hair askew, beating the man rather significantly with a bat, only to be quickly accosted by another baby-face lunging for his side, the two of them going down in a pile of limbs.

Kylo himself is immediately apprehended as well. While the one Kylo had smashed into a wall was still fitfully unconscious, this one was a hulking mass to even rival him, with arms the size of Kylo’s thighs and hands like fucking shovels, it’s not surprise it takes only a single punch to slam him into the ground, sending the switchblade skidding away. Blood pours from Kylo’s mouth, sour and tart, spilling over his chin and down his front.

Kylo does what anyone would do when knocked on their ass and high on adrenaline. Laugh. He can feel several teeth loose, and the missing presence of a canine is dully noted, but it’s with these dripping, bloodied teeth bared like an emblem of madness, he grins up at the dully, shiny baby face emotionlessly back.

When he snarls, he doesn’t do so without spitting at that mask first, “Come get it, _świnia_.”

The man advances, beefy hands grasp the lapels of Kylo’s jacket and yank him up, the rasp of the tearing collar only barely audible amongst the chaos somewhere to the left of them.

It starts with a strike, block, sweep, dodge. Kylo’s main incentive is to avoid any major damage, hand to hand combat never really being his primary skill, but it seems in this fight he was the only one with real training. Gaining the upper hand was his focus, though he was finding it something hard to do when it was currently twisted behind his back to the point of breaking by a literal man baby.

He kicks out, hits a kneecap, and is freed again. It’s a quick action to turn, plant his palm up onto the nose, feel the satisfaction of cartilage shatter for the second time that night, this time purposeful and under the mask as the oaf roared. Beefy hands grab Kylo and throw him to the ground sloppily, the man following after to descend upon him with hands around his throat.

For the second time that night Kylo can’t breathe, an entirely unpleasant feeling that he was not intent on getting fond of. His fingers scramble over the ground around him, looking for anything and – _there_.

It’s a slam, and a stab. Kylo whips the screw driver up, impacting the hard plastic handle with the man’s temple and knocking his head to the side, his sausage fingers loosened on Kylo’s neck. Kylo is sure to meet the straightening of the man’s head meet the dull tip of the screwdriver, the tip plunging through his now bruised temple.

What would’ve looked easy in movies was grisly, as Kylo felt every jerk and crunch of cartilage as the metal pushed through. While it was quick, it didn’t feel that way, and when the massive body collapses, reeking of death, atop him, Kylo nearly sighs with relief.

It’s a momentary, dazed struggle to remind himself of what was happening around him and that his relief should be short lived, but that job is not left to Kylo for long. There is a terrible, gurgling crunch, and a scream of which Kylo has never heard. It was nothing like that of dying comrades, like those of inmates being held down without mercy, not even those dying so painfully on mudded streets here in New York.

No, this was raw. It was pain and torture and it was _death._ He was on his feet, god knows how, the last baby face sees this, and steps back, dropping an iron pipe with a loud clang. On the ground mere feet away, lies the figured outline of the man they’d been attacking, body spasming in agony he wasn’t awake to feel.

“There are more of us coming.” The baby face hisses through the mask. “Minutes away. Better run.”

Kylo punches him.

It’s hard and square and it’s exactly what he needed to send the man crumpling. Unfortunately, this appears to have not been a lie at all, as the screech of tires it not too distant and inevitably nobody else. There are options, of course. Kylo could run, couldn’t he? Grab his shit and go, hope they wouldn’t spot him or even hunt him down. Or…

_Absolutely not._

He rushes to the car, yanking at doors in an attempt to see if they were unlocked. He was sure one of these guys had the key, but he didn’t have the time, something clearly noted as a second car pulls up at the opposite end of the alley, the screech of tires and slamming of doors echoing threateningly down the narrow alley.

“ _Shit. Shit.”_

What choice did he have now? With a scramble of movement, Kylo lunges for his bag, throwing it over his broad shoulders, the sound of his heartbeat burning in his ears and matching the pound of footsteps. His fingers are shaking, mind blurring, and there is a door to his left.

It seems to be a blur – slamming his body against the chipping red metal, feeling the give, the stumble and pressure on his ankles. _Tick, tick, tick._ His mind is a stopwatch, his hands shake as he darts out, grabbing the unconscious man by the wrist and yanks him inside, letting the unconscious body skid across the smooth concrete floor as he turns and smashes the door shut, the old metal screaming as it goes.

 _Block it block it block it bloc –_ He can’t breathe, lungs screaming, mind whirling, and he whips around. Chains. There were chains hanging from the low ceiling. And old factory? Doesn’t matter, one strong yank leaves the links of metal to clatter down into his open hands.

Ren is in the middle of wrapping the handles when a body throws itself against the door, where his ears start to hear sound instead of the unacknowledged numbing white noise that had been humming painfully against his eardrums.

There is shouting and incoherent yelling just outside, and Kylo holds himself against the door as he finishes with the chain. It’s old, rusted. It won’t last, especially if – _fuck._ Whoever was trying to get through this door was _not_ fucking around. Kylo digs his boots into the ground and forces his back against the peeling metal, teeth grit and muscles clenched.

There’s old factory lines, racks and cabinets alike that Kylo couldn’t reach without risk of the door breaking first except for – there’s a table. It’ll hold long enough for them to find a safer spot to wait for help.

_Help?_

Kylo shakes the thought away as he has no time to debate things with himself, swallowing the lump in his throat as he lunges for the table, hands curled around the two closest legs and dragging it over the rough cement with the scream of metal, turning and jamming it into the doorway.

He stands back, panting, only then realizing that the shouting had faded to actual conversation. It takes longer for his ears to tune in and remember how to understand words, even then barely eligible under the sound of his own pulse racing in chest.

“ _I don’t fucking care, watch every exit. Break this door down. Get in there or else it’s all our asses on the line."_

“ _You didn’t see this gu –_ ”

“ _He’s just a fucking human, and fucking humans can be killed, and if you don’t understand that, how about_ you _tell Snoke why the senator is still alive. We have them cornered, block every window, every crevice.”_

_“How long do we have to take them out?”_

_“Snoke has the police pressed down for five days. Use them.”_

Kylo’s breath is released in a hiss and he scrambles his way back from the door and away from these words. This _was_ a fucking hit, and Kylo had gotten himself right in the middle of it.

He is distracted by a low groan behind him. Spinning around, Kylo is reminded of the man who’d he’d just put his ass on the line for. He seemed to be coming round, head tilting and lashes fluttering slightly. Just behind him, the slamming against the door returns.

Silently cussing, Kylo scoops the man up into his arms, knees nearly giving out despite how… _light_ this man seemed to be. _Focus._

The closest room is the remnants of an office, there’s a dirty window for management to watch the subordinates through, long encrusting with a brown layer of filth. An old, decrepit mattress is on the floor, alongside old fast food wrappers and what seems to be a dead rat.

It’d do either way, and Kylo makes sure to stomp on it first to eradicate any vermin. When there is none, Kylo dumps the man non to gently onto the thing, hearing the scream of rusted springs.

It’s immediately after this that his gut seems to flip, that he stumbled over his own feet into a wall so he could bend over and vomit up stale coffee and bile, compensation for how long it’d been since he’d done such rigorous activity.

Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Kylo stumbles to the door, which locks easily from the inside, an old spin lock, but nothing that wouldn’t work until he could get help.

Help. There it was again, an idea so erratically unnatural Kylo almost laughed if it wouldn’t have made him throw up again. Who was to help them? Nobody knew where he was, or even knew him. Police didn’t care about some bum, in fact nobody did, and the true impact of this situation hits Kylo like a stack of bricks.

He barreled into a hit – a _real fucking hit_ – with not only what seems to be a team, but likely ordered by someone fucking powerful judging by the fear in the voices he heard; how desperate they were to kill this man.

Kylo Ren was going to die. It was as simple as that, as he was cornered into an old building like some mangy dog, part of something bigger than him. He couldn’t put it into words, let alone thoughts and he bit the tip of his tongue, pressing his forehead to the door.

It was a terrible, stressful, scary situation and he wants to scream, to hit something, to kill himself or reverse time. He’s fucked up before but nothing like this. And this – this was that _fucking man’s_ fault.

He spins, looking down at the unconscious form with a disgusted twist of lips. Would it be hard to kill him himself? To drag the body outside to the vultures and bargain for his freedom? To get some form of petty revenge for the shitstorm he was in now just because some asshole got himself hated enough to be assassinated?

There’s another groan from the prone figure, and Kylo is seething, standing over the man with fire in his lungs, clogging his mind and senses because fuck, he _couldn’t_ do it. Kylo knew that with all he’d fucking done, he couldn’t do this.

There’s no light in the room except for the dull, dirty shine through the small window at the top of the wall, far out of reach for him and too small for the broad of his shoulders anyway, of no use really, and even when Kylo squinted he couldn’t see his current roommates face.

It’s from this light he can see the figure’s outline faintly. He is thin, but not exactly skinny. Seemed to be wearing a suit of some kind. For the second time that night, Kylo finds himself alight with curiosity; although hopefully it won’t turn out as bad as an outcome as before.

His one flashlight is small, a two inch led with a reasonably sized beam of light that Kylo shines over the form as he crouches beside the mattress, having taken a second to pull it from his bag, a ruffle between his brows, lips pressed as he aims to the man’s torso, the light flickering weakly from old batteries.

The outline of a cellphone in a pocket catches Kylo’s eyes, and he swears he’s never been happier in his life, as this moment discounts everything from childhood Christmas to losing his fucking virginity as a chorus of angels seems to play over the room.

The only passcode is fingerprinted, which is easy enough. The man’s fingers feel boney and delicate in Kylo’s paw like hands, but he tries to not focus so much on that as the device unlocks, only to immediately show him a 5% battery sign.

There’s a symbol for a dial pad, and Kylo taps it, watching as it opens, ready for an inserted number. His heart picks up a beat, his throat tightening with excitement. His finger hovers of the nine, intending to call 911, only to hesitate. Hadn’t one of the men said that the police were ‘pressed down’ for five days? Shit, if police were in on this, Kylo has nothing.

Except – he punches in the one number he knows, the one that could save them both. He may have just met Phasma, but nobody was more reliable than a veteran.

It rings once, twice, three times, for now… shit no. Not voicemail, not now.

“Phasma, it’s Kylo. Listen, it’s a long story but I just saved some guy’s life – I don’t know who he is but they called him a senator -  we’re cornered in a building and there are people after us in the old factory district, street named L–”

The phone vibrates, then dies.

It takes him a second to realize it’s happened, sitting back on his haunches and staring at the blank device. Kylo’s mind is elsewhere, almost floating; his body feels unattached as he wonders if the message even sent, and his grip tightens, reality sets in again, and he throws the device aside, not caring for the resounding crack of the screen that echoes in the shabby room.

He takes to a pat down instead, hoping that there would be some other useful device, did people carry more than one phone nowadays? Maybe if he was lucky. It’s when his hand runs over the unconscious man’s ribcage that a loud whimper is emitted somewhere above. It takes Kylo to put two and two together, suddenly remembering the loud, wet crack, the scream in the alley and the iron pipe hitting cement.

Kylo swallows a lump, mouth dry as he passes his hands over the torso again, feeling over muscled pecs, lean muscles and taunt skin over a ribcage and –

Something hits Kylo, and the world turns sideways, then black.


	2. The Beginning (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events continue to unfold, this time by Armitage Hux's view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing this at the top so you'll read it. The main point of this story is different perspectives, so, for example, while reading as Kylo, you'll find he has a poetic outlook, everything will be described in vivid detail, while Hux will be more blunt and more 'dry'. Hux and Kylo will also see/hear each other differently, so while Kylo may think he talks perfectly, you'll hear from Hux that Kylo uses shit slang, and so on. This create an extra element between chapters.
> 
> TW: Vomiting, descriptions of injury, descriptions of sex, past suicide attempt, cutting, blood, over medicating, parental neglect, past verbal abuse, and Hux using 'twat'.

Armitage Hux is attracted to broken things.

Perhaps he could have said that it was they who were drawn to him, much like moths too light, in fact he could lie and act as if it were a mutual assessment of self-discomposure, but it'd still be untrue. He knew this - the ugly and the damaged, these qualities both physical or mental, sometimes even both - had brought trouble to the man since childhood.

It was his parents that originally spurned this, their lust for glory leaving a trail of the weak who were prodigies for the strong until their use ceased, their misfortune embodied in ugly faces or pasts preserving the holy, clear quality Hux's parents needed for their endless climb of political power.

Hux started at the age of eight with kitten, a ragged thing left to die by its mother he had found down by the creek while fruitlessly trying to catch minnows like he’d seen other children doing. When his parents had actually paid attention to him for longer than it took to make demands of him - which was after he had been nursing the kitten in a boxed bin in his closet for a month and a half - they had been affronted.

" _Feral animals are not pets, boy._ " his father had snarled, and Hux had known better to make the comment that to his father no pet was an indoor pet lest he be popped on the mouth by his mother or slapped by his father, instead he had lowered his head in submission.

An agreement was drawn up eventually, and while Hux's mother had had no interest in the situation farther then supporting the disciplinary actions of her husband, she had been raised around enough animals she convinced Brendol to let Hux keep the thing on the condition he remain in care of it.

Hux, admittedly, had been overjoyed, and while this had sated him much over the years, the inner abdominal genetics of his parents always found their way fresh into his mind, acquainting him with the weak or the boring, children with busted teeth and cigarette burns, children who stuttered or had accents so thick or skin colors so deep that no vividly conservative catholic town would take to them.

Despite all this, Hux remains alone, his individuality a metal around his neck, and many alike it joined his neck in later years; Valedictorian, top grades, scholarships; the king of having a stick up his ass.

Maybe it was that taste for broken things that devolved him to being one, his third year in high school crumbling to mental illness so severe that alcohol and drugs seemed the only viable option, and so his nights became as busy as his days, a modern twist on a superhero, instead his purity lapelled during the day with fresh smiles and completed homework while his nights were filled with his latest cock and how fucked up he could get and still make it to school the next day.

And so Hux became a broken thing, white, pointed teeth more like fangs and seafoam green eyes the consistency of cement. There was a feral element to his walk, to the lit of his accent, all of which ignored by his parents as long as he stayed in line and not ruin the political poster boy of a Senator his father was.

Of course, like most things to be broken, they eventually snap under pressure. Hux is seventeen when he tries to kill himself.

He had debated hanging himself, it was being like art, a white room with an almost obtuse blandness, that his figure hanging from the ceiling fan would be more of an unattractive light fixture than a corpse.

It is this very _bleakness_ that drives him to the thought of opening a vein, letting the red spill over the eggshell white and soft mauve, let every aspect of his life be stained with the very essence that had forced him to stay alive so long.

But it was pills that were the best choice. Should his parents open his bedroom door they'd seen nothing but their sleeping son, and god forbid he somehow survive, there would be no scar to mock his shame, his failure to even kill himself correctly. That morning he ran the underside if his tongue under the hot water of the tap so the thermometer would strike 103, his parents leaving him home alone to finally make up his mind.

It's a mistake, his clearly decided plan goes off the rails. He debated making his favorite breakfast, but decided he did not deserve it for the cowardice he was about to commit. Toast with jam was all he ate, after methodically washed the single plate and knife, wiped already immaculate counter, where he then sat and toyed with the idea of writing a courtesy note. Would his parents even bother to keep it let alone read it? Perhaps his mother was sentimental enough too, but even that was a stretch. They could always have more children, whether with each other Hux hadn’t a clue. He ended up writing something simple, a thank you for what they'd given him in life and how he was apologetic over wasting their time.

He folds it, sets it on the counter standing up, clearly noticeable. It is then the panic sets in.

It was the realization of completion to come, that it was still only nine in the morning and they would not return till four. But that didn’t matter, did it? He didn’t _want_ to be saved.

Did he?

 _No_ , Hux had decided more sternly. He didn’t. This was a cowards exit, a weak end for a weakling. He didn’t feel weak though, in fact he dares say he was relaxed as he began his trek upstairs. He'd fed Millicent one last time and ensured the house was immaculate. Millicent tried to follow him into his room as she heard his slow, calm steps up the stairs, the cat positively erratic in her fight to follow. Hux's eyes sting as he coos at her calmly and manages to shut the door without harming her. He whispers and apology as she yowls on the other side.

The slow building anxiety fights his guise of relaxation. How should he do it? Should he do it? The screeches of the cat, the ticking of the clock, the caws if the birds outside and his own heartbeat. There. Alive. In control.

He downs a handful of sleeping pills, takes a shower, combs his hair, dresses, then slices his left forearm open wrist to elbow, going against his own terms of _cleanliness_.

Maybe he was insane, but it was a blanket if serenity that lays over his eyes, the sharp sear of pain from his opened arm almost immediately dies, his impulse to cover the escape of blood doesn’t come, an odd sort of fuzz builds in his ears and his eyes. Hux is vaguely aware of a light smile on his face as he stumbles, hands catching the counter when he knees give out. The mix of sleeping pills and blood loss puts him down fast and hard, a loud buzzing in his ears almost covers the faint screeches of Millicent in the background.

He wonders if his mother’s scream upon the sight if his corpse would be truly over grief or of the scandal sure to come out of it, the senator’s son killing himself and his secret erotic nightlife revealed, people coming forward claiming to have done cocaine with him, to have watched him suck another senator’s sons cock on the couch of a house party, to how he sang karaoke when he was drunk and even broke another man’s nose in a fight. Oh how Hux's suicide would put a damper on _Senator Brendol Hux the Seconds_ political career, how the other trophy wives would judge his mother at their prayer circles.

Oh how he would be old news within months, just another disappointing 'good boy' who died in some disgraceful fashion to be swept under the rug. His parents would move on. The world would move on.

And Hux will still be a corpse on the bathroom floor.

Of course, from obvious detail he lives. His mother had brought her dry cleaning for a gala event home so early as to avoid wrinkling it in the back of her car. She was immediately accosted by Millicent and soon found the note. Hux knows she didn’t call the police then, he’s know that for a long time. He goes upstairs only to stand in the bathroom door to see a bloody mess of her son, disappointment filling her chest. Disappointment for her failure as a parent, disappointment at him for being so weak and not holding on for the sake of his family. Disappointment for the mess and fuss to come as he will no longer hide his broken frame and dead eyes. Alania Hux did not get on her knees to staunch the blood flow. Instead she locked the bathroom door from the inside and slid it shut, and only then called the police.

Hux often wonders, that maybe his attachment to broken things comes solely from the fact he was meant to be one day.

 _Fucking ridiculous_.

To find himself thinking of such things again has Armitage Hux in a state of irritation _. Armitage Hux, the slim little boy, akin to a slip of paper._ Nothing more than a bastardization of his father’s power.

_A stain upon the man’s reputation._

He scoffs aloud where he lays so many years later, spilt over heady silk sheets like the stain he was, with a cigarette in one hand and the soft glow of light creeping seductively over his thin, bare form, nothing but a linen sheet keeping his modesty, Armitage Hux considers himself exactly that yet in the most prevailing of ways and so help him god he will bear that like a crown.

In that moment he is akin to a renaissance painting, an almost unearthly glow about his fiery hair and shadowed cheekbones, the sharp jut of flushed hipbones exposed to the air with a copper trail of hair blooming somewhere between, and travelling under the sheet almost tauntingly. Parted pink lips exhale smoke, golden lashes batting under the spring of the city’s lights creeping through the drapes. He is a muse, a seductress, a slumbering lion; vulnerable but powerful in his ways.

Beside him, truth of that lays in the sleeping form of his latest _political scandal_ , the man’s large, shadowed back towards him, rising and falling slowly with sleep. He is prey, nothing more, a way for this wayward _lion_ to continue his rise, to sate the burning in his gut.

A sex scandal. _Scandal_. The thought makes Hux’s lip curl, sharp white canine exposed. Thinking of the retched news channels, befouling his name in such a way, makes his stomach curl in revulsion.

Not that they weren’t right – while in exchange for a rough, unstimulating fucking – Hux _was_ gaining the political ‘upper hand’ he needed to further progress his career in a highly competitive business, and frankly, all this chatter about his _unsavory ways_ was ridiculous. He knew far many more who had resorted to this long before he had ever had.

Either way, there were several smashed mugs in Hux’s rubbish bin that had taken the brunt of his rage on the matter.

Of course his current _lay_ ’s way to handle it had been abrasive at best. Several things had been thrown, doors slammed, and Hux had to endure the man’s horrid coffee breath in his face as he bared his teeth. This, like many times before, had ended with Hux’s face shoved in a mattress, ass up in the air like a common whore, his teeth grit in agitation as the feeling of guilt didn’t even touch his heart.

In fact, Hux was almost happy the fucker’s job was at risk for the sheer amount of times he endured this.

Had Hux been a weaker man he had perhaps not gone through with this affair at all in the first place, the violation and humiliation he has faced is nothing in comparison to the savagery he had before committed for the sake of his own cause.

The news getting out does through a bar in the mix now. Hux hums aloud at the thought, dropping his cigarette as he does, frown tugging his lips as it falls uncaringly to the floor. He takes another from the bedside, twirling the thing between long, delicate fingers as he thinks. It could be staged as a mugging perhaps, or even a suicide. Those were rather common nowadays, weren’t they? Especially now that this affair has been outted, it could easily be drawn back to shame induced or a hate crime.

Hux is pondering the pros and cons of a staged hanging when his phone chimes from the side table, startling him out of his own thoughts. There is a short list of people whom could be messaging Armitage Hux at one in the morning, and he knows full well who it is before he even touches the device, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he glances over to the phone’s perch.

It’s with an unconscious swallow and tensed shoulders that Hux unlocks his phone and reads the displayed message, the white of the screen reflects off his pale, almost dead appearing eyes. His face is cold, political, a shallow mask of what it’d been minutes ago. There is a ripple upon one hollowed cheek as his jaw suddenly clenches.

_Meet outside. 20 Minutes. Get in car._

He exhales smoke, ashing his cigarette over expensive sheets with the lightest tremble of a finger, the tiniest of reflexes, and a chill runs over Hux’s bare spine like the drip of cool water, what was languid mere minutes ago has become wound, a spring of anxiety, showing in the press of his lips and the switch of his muscles.

He had reason to fear Snoke; the man worked as the Department of Justice for the United States for one, while bitterly so. Hux had come into contact with Snoke several years ago at a meet and greet, a stiff shake of hands and later shared whiskey began and odd sort of dance, fallen into a pattern of exchanging favors, whether it was to blackmail another senator or slip information of competitors to the public, it had never become serious until last year, until the balance had teetered so dangerously away from Hux that he had nearly lost it all.

Snoke had found out Hux was gay.

It was purely accident on Hux’s part, a banquet not an ideal space to, for example, drag one of the caterers off to the closest coat check. Snoke had literally caught him in the act, and Hux to this day could still remember the slow grin that spread the man’s face, the malice in his beady little eyes when he’d seen Senator Armitage Hux on his knees.

In terror of what Snoke could do with this information, Hux had demanded a power balance, that their little game had lost its danger if he was the only one in threat. While Snoke had laughed then, he hadn’t months later when Hux, who’d fought tooth and nail it find any thread, and accidentally found the entire god damn weave. Hux had approached him with a cigar, several folders, and a smirk on his face that read of mischief.

The feeling of ecstasy, as Snoke looked up from those folders with the burning of hate, almost tinged with respect, dancing in his eyes, was that of balance once again reinstated.

Hux had put his cigar on the top of that very file before walking away. This was the last physical time they’d seen each other.

It was fully within reason to be hesitant. Snoke was an old man, terribly scarred from some car accident decades ago, his sagging eyes like those of a vulture, one clawed hand curled around the crystal knob of his walking stick. Yet he sat upon an empire of illegal activity that ran through the Whitehouse itself, an empire only Hux knew about.

And now Snoke had nothing on him.

 _Justice Minister my ass_. He would’ve snorted aloud if the feeling of apprehension wasn’t contracted around his chest like a coiled snake.

With a timeline set, Hux goes to shower. He uses no products and is quick, scrubbing his scalp with manicured nails, turning the water near blisteringly hot as he tried to calm his erratic heart. Dangling on a chain just above it, Hux’s old dogtags hang, water running and dripping off their metallic surface. He watches as it happens, head ducked, the clarity of clean water, the scent of steam that fogs the glass of the shower. Below him, a circular drain gurgles sluggishly.

He feels as if he is in suspension, that time was slow, dangling, that it was tensing despite how his muscles relaxed under the heat and rhythmic water. A part of Hux wonders if he, now, is in another world, a place where this was his forever.

When his pale eyes catch the scar upon his forearm, faint with age and traced by water, it is not with the weakness of the pathetic boy he once was, but with the strength and endurance of the man he was now, and for fucks sake he will not let this lower him.

Instead, Hux shuts off the tap and steps out.

When he’s finished, Hux towels off and redresses, taking time to comb his hair and straighten his tie. While he is back to his formal glory, something seems more hollow this time, and as Hux stares at his own reflection, he can’t help but wonder if this is a trap. If Snoke was capable of murder.

It’s not paranoia that presses him to move. It’s not paranoia that has him take a hand towel into the Livingroom – bleak, grey, minimalistic. His suit matches. His life matches. _He’s tired_. – to crouch in front of the tv cabinet and open on the olive wood doors, to click in the combination of the painfully simple safe – The man’s birthday year. Boring. – and to push aside envelopes and cash for the sake of a poorly oiled pistol.

It’s glossy black, so stark against the light surrounding as Hux shoves the safe and cabinet doors shut. As Hux stands he is holding the piece up in the low lighting to admire her pondering how he hadn’t handled a pistol in a while, and with little time to retrieve his own, this hooligan’s will do.

Because after all, what could go wrong?

 

* * *

 

 

Hux shouldn’t have ever got in that car.

The yellow stream of headlights, the feeling of blood rushing through every vein, his index finger throbbing with imaginary intensity as it pulled the trigger, as he ended a life.

Armitage Hux had faced battlefield, he had faced the wrath of humanity both strange and known. He had killed and nearly been killed so repetitively he no longer fears death, in fact, should it knock on his door Hux’d invite it in. A part of Hux had always felt that way, young and lonely, it had been welcome.

That is until death comes to your door with several Halloween mask wearing men wielding metal pipes.

That’s when you fight like hell.

It’s pure spite that drives Hux now, a red behind his eyes and a fire in his stomach. It’s not at the fact Snoke is trying to kill him, no, it’s at the fact he sent a crew of fucking _gangbangers_ to do it, to beat him to death in an alleyway with lead pipes and likely jack off atop his corpse.

No, Hux wasn’t some _bitch_ to be killed off when his use was spent. He was a man of honor as much as a man of corruption, and if Snoke thought for even a second he would succumb to this, this nonsense, then Hux would be kind enough to send him flowers.

It’s a dirty fight, Hux’s gun out of his hand quicker then he would’ve liked, but just as easily replaced with a lead pipe of his own. His surroundings are dark, vividly so. The only illumination is the yellowy headlights shining in the opposite direction, catching the falling flurries in their beams. It’s be beautiful if it wasn’t for the occasion.

Hux can’t help but wonder at what point in his life did he make the choice that would bring him here. What if he’d chosen differently at that time? Would he be somewhere else now> It is entirely nonsense to think of, but he’d like to think it’d be somewhere warm, with a pack of cheap cigarettes, long grass, and a side of tall-dark-and-handsome.

A pipe catches him in the elbow, another gets his hip, and Hux knows that if and when they converge upon him all at once, he will go down hard, and he will die, cold and alone in an alley in New Yorker.

_You will never be anything, boy. You were born on your hands and knees and you will die on your hands and knees._

It’s almost ironic.

But there is always that variable. That one in a hundred. That moment of refuge in which your entire life, nay, _fate_ can be turned in a blur. This variable come in the form of blood, hot and wet, it splatters across Hux and his assailants as a gurgling screech emits the air.

A figure falls who is not Hux, convulsing against the pavement as a mass of a man is outlined where the now deceased stood, a man who if Hux’s eyes could focus better, he’d dare say was not here to kill him. One who was a stranger.

It’s a perfect delay, and Hux doesn’t take time to stare as he has the pipe up and smashing into the temple of the closest assailant in record time, the fray recommencing as the new member jumps right into it.

Hux’s is fighting a man weaker than he, not quite as coordinated. Unlike Hux, he seems to be unused to the sounds of violence and is distracted easily by a howling scream a little way away, and Hux barrels him over, throwing the entirety of his weight down as he smashing the attacker on the shoulder with the pipe, hearing his shrill scream as he stumbles to the ground.

When he sits up, intending to, frankly, bash the man’s brains out, they are both nearly trampled by a figure trying to wrestle another off his back. Hux recognizes the shape as the man _not_ here to kill him, and rushes up to help, using the pipe to hit the person of the man’s back and ducking away as he spins around.

As flurries fall under yellow light, gravel crunching and metal screeching, the groans of fallen men around, Hux and this man share eye contact for the briefest of seconds. Dark eyes, black, framed with thick lashes and thicker brows. They are insatiable, filled with bloodlust and an animalistic lack of integrity for life that sends Hux reeling.

When it is broken Hux feels as though his has lost something, like a treasured possession or a lifelong friend, a hollowness in his heart, yet he cannot wander that feeling now as his formally down opponent makes a reappearance, grappling Hux to the ground with an angry bellow.

It’d been a long time since Hux had physically fought someone, and while he knows enough to keep the man from his face and neck, he fails to protect his abdomen, a particularly extreme blow sends a shockwave of pain through his body that leaves him gasping and boneless.

He is vaguely aware of the weight atop him moving, but has no time to prepare for what happens next, hearing the grind of metal as it was picked from the concrete, and then furtively slammed down upon him.

Pure white bloomed affront his eyes as his body arches, letting out a shrill scream without his control. Hux feels his muscles spasm, blood and bile rising in the back of his throat, pain so hot and burning it is spiraling him out of control.

He faints, and that is the last thing he remembers.

 

* * *

 

 

Hux has woken with hands on his body many times before, but nothing like this.

What he first feels is pain, a groggy burn in his stomach region and a numbness in his limbs, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Then comes the sensation of rustling, of hands pattering over his form, he knows it is happening faster than it feels, but perhaps his mind is working in slow motion, or it is just receiving delayed information?

They aren’t exactly _unpleasant_ , just hurried. He nearly jolts when a buzzing deafness he hadn’t noticed recedes with alarming sharpness, leaving his head sore and with the feeling of overworked. There is breathing close by, heavy and deep, probably the owner of the hands. In the background Hux can hear what sounds like… voices? Banging? He can’t be sure, it all feels too much, too fresh.

It feels like his body is static, and Hux learns he can still moves his hands as he twitches his fingers, shifting them slightly and bending at the joints. Fabric, he’s on fabric; threadbare and oddly… crusty? It’s hard to determine words for the grainy texture. He instead clenches and unclenches his hand to ensure it is still functions, joints stretching uncomfortably, when he feels what must be a rock of sorts brushed against the side of his palm. He curls his fingers around is and squeezes.

A sudden press on Hux’s gut brings him back to earth with an agonizing lurch of which he’d never experienced before, a noise choking out of him before he can stop it, and a burn like vomit flies up his throat, eyes whiting out entirely as the world threatens to vanish again.

His breathing becomes rapid, and when his senses return, hands are back upon him, delicate and paced as they run down his chest in a searching way, over the grooves of his pecs almost sensually, like a caress of a lover. The pressure under his skin increases to burning the closer flat alms down to his stomach, and Hux has little time and little orientation with surroundings to ponder what to do.

 _Don’t think just do_. Rock in his hand, Hux throws his torso out, swinging wildly in the direction that may be his current _groper_ , and slamming the rock forward.

Pain explodes once again inside Hux’s diaphragm like a firecracker, a shriek escaping his lips before he could stop it covers the sound of a body thudding to the floor, and fell back, turning only in time to vomit up what must be all the bile in his stomach.

Left coughing and shaking upon what could be the ground or the bed or _who fucking knows_ , the taste of copper only identifiable with blood is burnt to his tongue. Raising trembling fingers to his lips, Hux wipes some of the bile away, and moves his hand up to see –

Blackness.

The darkness, was it him or was it his surroundings? Hux tests by blinking, feeling no damage within his eyes, he is ready to further test his theory when a low groan emits somewhere to his left, Hux freezes, swallowing sharply, and tries to ignore the renewed violent shaking in his fingers.

“What the fuck.” It’s a deep voice, raspy, like someone with a sore throat. There is the tiniest lick of an accent on the letter ‘t’, sort of curved and slurred.

There is another groan, more annoyed that pained. There is the sound of patting, hands over floor close enough to tell him he may be on a mattress, likely on the ground, when suddenly a hand lands on his hip so suddenly it starts a noise from him.

Even with his eyes adjusted, Hux can barely see the black mass above him.

It’s dead silent, awkwardly so, as Hux waits for the inevitable. This is likely how he is to end, that this man would be upon him in a second, and the thought that the last thing he will see is darkness is intolerable, almost painful in a way he’d never felt before.

His eyes clench shut as a body moves in over his, leaning over to the point Hux is sure he feels the hot exhales brush his hollowed cheek. Death was coming any second and he’d die alone, unaccomplished, and –

He is poked on the cheek.

His eyes snap open, peering up to the dark mass that may be a face in utter confusion. Were they going to torture him first? Is that why he is here?

“You ‘wake?” another jab, sharper this time, is delivered upon Hux’s face.

What exactly could he even respond in this situation?

“Skinny, hey you awa –”

“Yes.” Hux snaps wildly, flaring out with his hands to push, grab, do something to get this man away, smacking wildly towards the shape of a face.

“Aye, what th’ hell don’ go hittin’ me” The sound of denim over concrete as someone rushes back, and Hux tries to hit up again, to pursuit, attack, but finds himself blocked by pain once more.

“I will not… let you… _kill me_.” Hux hisses, teeth grit with determination despite the blinding nausea and frying burn in his abdomen. Trying to get to his feet is an effort in futility, vomit rising almost immediately as Hux collapses back once more, out of breath.

“Kill you? I ain’t trying to kill you Skinny.” The voice returns, sounding confused and unrightfully irritated.

“Then why am I _here_? In this – this murder _dungeon_.”

There are a few feet between the two men at most, and Hux is sure that it is a man. No hands that large or voice that deep could be a woman’s. Hux upon the ragged mattress, he can hear the faint movements not far, as it sounds like the man is – sitting? Like he is watching Hux through this blackness as well, two sides of a coin, facing together but without sight.

“Who are you then?” Hux pants, shifting slightly on the mattress, then groaning aloud as another jerk of pain flashes through him, his hand flying to the area, the skin beneath it burning with fever. “What did you do to me?”

There is a scuffle of noise as the man tries to approach, but Hux throws his free hand up. “Don’t come any closer!”

“I’m not tryin’ to hurt you.” The voice I almost gentle, soothing, Hux can imagine those big hands raised at shoulder height, and a mediocre, face that lacks any detail in a pitiful pull. “You were attacked ‘n I jumped in.”

It clicks, and Hux remembers, the arch of arterial blood, the mass of a man with eyes darker than the very room around them. “…Why?” Is all Hux manages to muster, absolutely panting, embarrassingly winded by nothing more than an attempt to sit up.

“I… I dunno.”

The answer somehow infuriates Hux like nothing has before. He has been in debates with people so stupid they are near fiction, handle nosey reporters, a shit family, and now a sex scandal, and somehow a fucking _stranger_ who saved his bloody fucking life not being able to scrap together a bare minimum of a reason has Hux near spitting.

“You ‘ _dunno’_? You fucking twat I cannot – _ah_!” He rears so sharply his body arches, a cold sweat breaking out upon his forehead.

“I think something’ might be broke’.” Large hands are on Hux again, but with barely the strength to feebly push them and whimper as sharp juts of pain dance through his limps, Hux can do nothing but let his shirt be rucked up from his trousers, feel a hands with little experience push it up.

There’s a little click, a dim, flickering light illuminates somewhere below his eye line. There I no gasp, no gag, instead the breathing stills as if held, and somehow this is scarier than all other options before. “What – what is it?” Hux stutters, hating himself for how pathetic he sounded.

The exhale comes, sharp and hot over his skin, enough to rouse gooseflesh over the area that currently felt like lava near the edge of his ribcage. The shirt is pulled back down, punctuated by a sharp “Nothin’.”

“What do you mean _‘nothin’_.” Hux snaps, his own accent sounding all too posh as it mimic’s the other man’s pronunciation. It certainly didn’t feel like nothing. In fact, it felt as if a globe was jammed uncomfortable under the edge of his ribs.

“Nothin’ as in if you know, you gonna work yourself into a lather ‘nd make it worse.”

“I have the right to know.” Hux barks, punctuated by a loud groan emitted between bared teeth. He was fucking furious to say the least, none of this made sense, all too fast and happening like a bad dream.

There’s a noise akin to someone falling back from their haunches, and Hux feels his heart beating all too fast. Who was this indignant man, thinking he could sit and relax, acting as if Hux hadn’t said a word, who is he to keep such rightful information away from h –

“You think too loud.”

Hux freezes, his contorted scowl turning to a pinched frown, his brows drawn down in confusion. “Pardon?”

“I said, –”

“I know what you said,” Hux hisses. “What did you _mean_.”

Should there be a clock in the room, you’d had heard it tick in the following silence, the same way Hux was sure that the slow boiling of his blood would be heard as well.

“Did you not hear –” Hux begins sharply but is cut off by a cool response.

“I did.”

Another beat.

“Then why didn’t you answer?”

“I don’t want t’ answer.”

“Why you have to be bloody,” Hux starts, the pauses. He feels that if he could see, the man would be staring very pointedly, brows raised as if to say _‘see?’._

Hux saw. And it was with forced calm that he asked once more, “Can you please tell me what you saw.”

There’s an exhale that sounds all too much like a laugh, and before Hux can wind himself all up again, the voice responds. “It looks like you busted some bone there, on y’ rib, skins all purple n’ if I got t’ be honest it’s pretty close t’ your liver. Think you got y’self some internal bleeding with the de’coloring of the skin. All purple.”

Hux is in stunned silence, his hands drifting to the area of pain. It’s on his left, just near where his bottom ribs and liver were. It was possible, if hit properly, for one of them to break off and puncture… “ _Oh god_.”

“Told y’ you wouldn’t want t’ know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the top Note for some extra details on the story and how it will progress.  
> As always, kudos an comments are delicious.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading as always. Comments and Kudos are super appreciated as i thirst for validation at all times. 
> 
> Fine me on tumblr at http://majesticaljeff.tumblr.com/
> 
> And of course find my editor http://pangaeastarseed.tumblr.com/


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